


A Thing of Beauty

by lady_eva



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2016-04-09
Packaged: 2018-05-06 13:34:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5418980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_eva/pseuds/lady_eva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU.  Napoleon Solo, the self-proclaimed best art thief in Europe, gets caught in the wrong place at the wrong time by an unimpressed KGB agent while attempting to steal a priceless artwork from a Soviet occupied mansion.  Snark ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Thing of Beauty

Napoleon Solo gazed intently into the ornate frame hanging on the opposite wall.  It was truly a work of art in front of his eyes, a thing of beauty to be appreciated by even the most uncultured layman.  A small appreciative sigh escaped his lips.  Lifting one skilled finger to his head, he carefully brushed away the lone, misplaced hair from his expertly crafted coif, and tilted his head to observe the result from another angle.  Satisfied with what he saw, a broad smile spread across his handsome features and he flashed an enticing wink at his own reflection.  He then dragged his eyes from the mirror on the wall and turned his attention towards the real prize of the evening: to the delicate, unassuming oil-canvas hanging demurely to the right of the mirror.

“Hello gorgeous,” he murmured under his breath.  

Perhaps it wasn’t appropriate for him to be murmuring anything under his breath in that particular moment, but he felt like he should say something to mark the achievement of successfully finding his target.  The only barrier to him performing a full and rousing speech on the subject of the beauty found in art, and in the pursuit of art, was the simple fact that he really wasn’t supposed to be there at all, in that culture-lined hallway in an East German manor in the middle of a cold winter’s night.  He shrugged disappointedly at the lost opportunity, his bottom lip jutting into a small pout, and he reached up to unceremoniously lift the painting down from the wall.

This type of work had become Napoleon’s bread-and-butter, and most of the jobs he had taken in the last year could be described roughly along the lines of: Wealthy, Morally Bankrupt Person A desires something of value belonging to Wealthy, Morally Bankrupt Person B, and Napoleon Solo (also known as Not Particularly Wealthy But Still Morally Bankrupt Person C) is recruited to transfer ownership of that something from Person B to Person A.  On this particular evening, that something of value was a priceless Old Master currently in the possession of one General Yezhov of the Soviet military.  The General was not especially known for his taste in art or the finer things in life, and had only become the owner of the painting when he had become the owner of an entire East German manor, sometime after the end of the war.  In the decade or so of Soviet occupation since then, the General had managed to strip this distinguished old mansion down into something more resembling an army barracks, and Napoleon was fairly certain the soldiers bunking in the manor wouldn’t be able to tell the painting apart from the wallpaper it hung on.  His conscience didn’t feel particularly bothered by the idea of liberating the painting from their uncultured, unwashed hands, and putting it into the hands of someone who would actually appreciate it.  Well, into the hands of someone who was paying good money for it, which was basically the same thing as appreciating it.

With the painting now removed from the wall and resting on the thick Persian rug sprawled across the hallway, Napoleon paused for a moment to listen for any signs of approaching soldiers who might be in the mood to ruin his evening.  His head tilted cautiously to one side.  Nothing but the wind.  He then turned his head to scan the corridor, first in the direction he had come from, and then off into the unfamiliar darkness of the East Wing, but no signs of life could be seen in either direction.  Relaxing the muscles of his shoulders, Napoleon let out a small satisfied sigh.  He really had outdone himself tonight.  He had chosen the night perfectly: no moon, no rain to create footprints, and just enough of a wind to explain any unexpected noises in the creaking, wooden hallways.  The wall encompassing the manor’s grounds had been scaled perfectly, the door to the servants' quarters unlocked in record time and the bribed errand boy’s information about the painting’s location had been both exquisitely detailed and accurate.  He had avoided the attention of every soldier on the premises and had scarcely made a noise that could be deemed louder than a whisper while inside the manor.  If the art thieves of the world had the ability to be scored on their performance, then this would have to be a perfect ten so far.  Perhaps he could start an art thieves review committee one day for just such a purpose, and he nodded to himself thoughtfully at the idea.  They could get some trophies made up for it, he mused.  Perhaps a cash prize too.

With a self-satisfied smirk on his face, Napoleon reached up to his shoulder to shrug off the straps of the painting-sized carry-case he had there, and quietly dropped the empty bag to the floor.  Resting his weight down onto one knee, he silently unzipped the case, slid the painting inside so that it rested snugly against the cushioned sides, and then carefully began to reseal the case.

“Put your hands above your head.  Slowly.”

Napoleon froze.  The voice was low and cold and spoke in heavily-accented German.  The sound of it in that silent corridor made his stomach feel like it had been filled with ice.  Closing his eyes, he pressed his lips into a thin, frustrated line and bit on his top lip until it hurt.   He had been so careful, how the hell had someone managed to sneak up on him?  With a long, slow sigh he dropped the bag back to the floor, settled his weight onto both knees and dejectedly raised his hands above his head.  

“Okay, you got me,” he said with a defeated laugh.  He spread his hands beside his head into an exaggerated shrug.

“Place your hands behind your head,” demanded the voice behind him.  “Interlock your fingers.  And do not roll your eyes like that.”

Napoleon’s eyes stopped mid-roll and his brows rose in mild surprise.  With a brief shrug, he did as he was asked and soon had his hands clasped sullenly behind his head.

“Okay, okay, you want me to kiss your boots too?” he muttered.  He had to stop himself from trying to roll his eyes again.

“That is not necessary,” came the disinterested reply.  “Instead, you are going to give me all the information I ask for.”  A menacing edge entered his captor’s voice.  “For instance, where is your backup?”

Napoleon abruptly turned his head to face his captor with a baffled look on his face.

“Say what now?   _Backup_?”

As he turned, he jolted suddenly at the sight of a gun barrel looming very close to his face.  It was by no means the first time that Napoleon Solo had ever had a gun pointed at his head, but it wasn’t exactly something you ever got used to seeing.  His heart hammered against his ribs.  Trying to keep the fear out of his eyes, he peered around the barrel, shuffling around clumsily on his knees, until he caught sight of the figure holding the gun.  The man who had somehow managed to sneak up on him was tall and imposing in dark combat gear and had a stance that betrayed no weaknesses.  Napoleon had to tilt his head up, and then _up,_ before he finally saw the man’s face.  Blue eyes stared back down at him with an expression that could cut glass, framed by chiselled cheekbones and sleek blond hair.  Napoleon blinked.  This man was not your run-of-the-mill Soviet conscript.  He looked more like one of the artworks lining the walls, if that artwork was capable of springing alive from marble to defend its comrades from his plundering ways.  

“Oh, _wow_.  Look at you,” Napoleon purred absentmindedly.  Louder, and with a touch more snark, he added, “How’s the weather up there?” He tilted his head pointedly at the distance between the gun and its owner’s face.

The blond man angled his head and frowned.

“Weather?  We are indoors.”  He did not appear impressed by his prisoner’s intellect.

Napoleon’s lips twitched up at one corner.  So that joke didn’t appear to translate, he mused to himself.  He wondered if ‘ _how’s the view from up there?_ ’ would fare any better, but the gun inches from his face forced him to reconsider asking.

“ _Answer_ me,” spat the man with gun, with a flash of bared teeth.  “I asked where is your _backup_?”

Napoleon dragged his gaze up from the gun barrel to smile charmingly at its owner.

“Why yes, I know you did,” he replied placatingly.  “It’s just that I didn’t have the heart to tell you: I don’t actually have any backup, it’s only little ol’ me here with you tonight.  Sorry I can’t be of more assistance.”  He lifted his shoulders in an apologetic shrug.

The man glaring down at Napoleon inhaled sharply through his nose as if he had just been insulted.  His grip tightened on the gun.

“Don’t lie to me,” he hissed.  “We have been aware of CIA’s presence in area for some time, and all intelligence pointed to operation taking place tonight.  The CIA would never send just one agent for this: you must have backup.   _Where are they_?”

Napoleon’s eyes widened.  That was not the accusation he had been expecting.

“Woah, wait a minute... CIA?  You think I’m some kind of CIA spy?  I’m not a _spy_.” He spat the word.  “Do you honestly think someone that you just caught stuffing an expensive piece of artwork into a bag - and into a _perfectly artwork-sized_ bag at that - in the middle of the night is going to be a spy?  Do you really think a spy would wear a shirt quite as exquisite as this?”  

He lowered one hand from its raised position to tug earnestly at his shirt lapel, as if it would somehow vouch for his identity.  

“Can’t you see I’m obviously an art thief?” he implored.  Laughter threatened to bubble up and out of him, the situation was just so ridiculous.  He managed to contain himself and smiled pleasantly instead, though in the same manner as he would to his slightly batty old neighbour.

His smile was met with stony, disbelieving silence.  After a moment, one blond eyebrow angled up.

“So, let me see if I understand.  I come across intruder in middle of night - who just _happens_ to be American - on a night where the theft of important documents is likely to be attempted... and you say you are not involved in any way with CIA’s operation.  You are only here to steal paintings.  It is just… one big coincidence.  Is that what you expect me to believe?” he hissed.

Napoleon mused for a moment, then nodded once.  

“Well, considering that it’s the truth, I don’t know what else to tell you.  Maybe both parties just happened to pick the best night for a robbery, great minds thinking alike and all that?”

The glowering expression on the Russian’s face was beginning to make Napoleon feel genuinely concerned for his own wellbeing.

“Oh come on, comrade,” he protested, with a hint of panic in his voice.  “I might be a thief but I don’t steal documents or secrets or anything quite so cloak-and-dagger as that, just honest things of beauty that sell for a crapload of money to the right buyer.  I mean, surely you must have heard talk of me and my reputation?  Napoleon Solo, art thief _extraordinaire_?  I am damn good at what I do, after all.  Why, I might even go so far as to say that I’m the best art thief in Europe.”  A cocky grin stretched across his face.

With one eyebrow raised, a cruel smirk began to spread across the blond man’s fine features.

“Oh?  The _best_ art thief _,_ you say?  I have not heard of you, and if you truly are _best_ , then why am I holding gun to your head?”  The corner of his mouth twisted higher.  “Why did I spot you crossing wall on Camera 6A twenty minutes ago?  And then again, thirty seconds later, entering servants' quarters on Camera 12?  Why was I able to stand less than two meters away from you, without you noticing, for at least five minutes while you admired your own appearance in that mirror over there?”

Napoleon swiveled his gaze to the mirror, staring at it in open-mouthed shock like it had just betrayed him.   Slowly turning back to his captor, he opened his mouth to respond to the accusations leveled against him, but every witty comeback he could think of seemed to clog in his throat.

“It- it wasn’t five minutes exactly…” he eventually managed to stammer.  “And I wasn’t just _admiring_ my appearance, I was _perfecting_ my appearance.”

“Perfecting, admiring…”  The blond man wrinkled his nose like he’d smelt something bad.  “Whatever it was, it should not have required more than five seconds.  To spend any more time-”

“ _Aww_ ,” Napoleon interjected abruptly, feeling some of his injured charisma beginning to trickle back.  “I’m flattered you think my looks don’t need perfecting.”  He gazed up with his most charming smile, his white teeth sparkling in the lamplight.

His adversary scowled down at him.

“You know what?  You are right, I do not think you are CIA spy.” He slowly shook his head.  “You are not any sort of spy.  You are _distraction_.”  

“I-I beg your pardon?” spluttered Napoleon indignantly.   

“It is clear that you are terrible at infiltration, and your manner is so unprofessional that it borders on ridiculous.  I think you are simply diversion planned by CIA to allow their _real_ agents to carry out their mission.”  His shoulders slumped and the gun drooped from aiming at Napoleon’s face down to somewhere near his knees.  A defeated sigh escaped his lips.  “And I have just fallen for that diversion.”

Rage flared in Napoleon’s gut, and his usual charismatic grin hardened into an icy glare.  A diversion?  A _distraction_?  This freakishly tall Adonis with a gun thought that _he_ was a distraction?  That he was some kind of incompetent sideshow to divert attention from the main event?  He’d never been so insulted in all his life.  Everyone who knew him, or had even the good fortune to cross paths with him, knew that regardless of the situation Napoleon Solo was _always_ the main event.

As Napoleon fumed to himself, a radio crackled suddenly from the blond man’s uniform, loud and harsh in the silent corridor.

_“Agent Kuryakin?”_

Returning the gun to Napoleon’s scowling face, but with less effort than before, the blond man - Kuryakin - lifted a small black radio from the chest pocket of his gear with his other hand and brought it to his lips.

“Kuryakin here,” he sighed.  His eyes did not leave Napoleon’s.

_“Were you able to locate the intruder you spotted?”_

The look of contempt for Napoleon in Kuryakin’s eyes was so brutal it was close to being physically painful.  His lips were pressed into a tight line and one finger tapped erratically against the plastic of the radio.  After a moment he unclenched his jaw and spoke into the radio.

“I have found and detained the intruder but I doubt he is working alone.  It is likely he is diversion to allow his accomplices easier access to the safe.  The theft will likely be attempted tonight, possibly within the hour.  Do not allow yourself to be... _distracted_.”  He spat the last word at Napoleon like a curse word.  “I will bring the intruder to the wine cellar now for interrogation, and I want you to increase security around the General’s study.  Report back to me at ten minute intervals.”

_“Understood, Agent.  Over and out.”_

Kuryakin returned the radio to his chest pocket.  The tremor in his hand was becoming more pronounced.

“On your feet,” he spat, gesturing with the gun in an upwards motion.  

Napoleon lopsidedly scrabbled to his feet, resisting the urge to lower his hands from his head to help his balance.

“Now walk,” continued Kuryakin, nodding in the direction of the servants' quarters, and the stairs descending to the basement that Napoleon had noticed on his arrival.  

Napoleon held the icy gaze of his captor for a moment, before he spun on his heel and marched off along the corridor, his head high and his hands even higher, and a bemused twist to his lips.  They walked in stony silence, Napoleon in front, Kuryakin behind, their footsteps loud in the confined space and echoing off into the darkness.  It was such an irritatingly unnatural way to walk: hands clasped behind the head, gun inches from the spine, and a stride slow and sedate enough to avoid being accused of trying to run off.  It felt more like a bizarre dance, and the idea put a crooked smile on Napoleon’s face, unseen by his partner behind him.

“So…” he drawled to break the silence, “A tour of the premises from the Red Peril himself?  I’m flattered, I wouldn’t have pegged you as a tour guide.  I’m particularly looking forward to sampling the delights of the wine cellar, I think you’ll find I’m somewhat of an expert on European vintages.”

“Oh?” came the bored response from behind him.  “Just as you are an expert on breaking-and-entering?  You are not doing much to improve my opinion of you.”

Napoleon smirked.

“Is that so?  I think I’ll take that as a challenge, Peril.”

They soon came to the edge of the stairs to the basement.  Napoleon peered down into the darkness, and cautiously began to descend the steep wooden steps.  He was not in the mood to fall face-first onto the basement floor, which was a very real possibility considering the general state of repair of the steps and his hands being out of action behind his head.  Such a faux-pas would not do much to improve Kuryakin’s opinion of him and he was always one to take a challenge seriously, even self-imposed challenges.

With the stairs successfully navigated, they turned onto another gloomy corridor where Napoleon could just make out the shape of large wooden barrels in the distance, and shelves upon shelves of dark dusty bottles.  Despite the air of confidence that he was trying desperately to project, the sight of the wine cellar and the fate that awaited him there filled him with cold dread.  

Kuryakin’s radio crackled abruptly back into life, causing Napoleon to jump.

_“Agent Kuryakin!  Come in!”_

Napoleon could tell immediately that this was no scheduled check-in: there was genuine alarm in the soldier’s voice.  He stopped in his tracks in the middle of the corridor, hands still secured in their clasped position, and focussed his attention on Kuryakin with one curious eyebrow raised.

“Go ahead, soldier,” came Kuryakin’s brisk reply.

_“They have it, Agent!  I don’t know how they did it, but the safe is open and empty and I… I turned my back for just a moment-”_

“Ivanov, calm down.  Where are you?” demanded Kuryakin.  

_“Still in the study.  The windows are closed and locked and I- I didn’t hear the door open, I just don’t know how this could have happened.  W-what should I do, Illya?”_  The soldier’s voice was pleading and terrified.

Carefully studying Kuryakin’s face, Napoleon finally saw a flickering sign of what he’d been searching for.  Hesitation.  It was only a flash, nothing more than a brief furrowing of blond brows and a wavering gaze, but to Napoleon it was a green light, bright and brilliant in the dark corridor.  In one fluid motion he slammed one hand against the barrel of Kuryakin’s gun and simultaneously grabbed the hilt with his other hand, twisting it away from Kuryakin’s grasp.  He then launched a knee into his opponent’s midriff, causing Kuryakin to crumple over in surprised pain, and then smashed the heavy hilt into the back of his head for good measure.  That should be enough to keep him down.  Not bothering to wait around to make sure he was truly down for the count, Napoleon stuffed the newly acquired gun into his jacket pocket and promptly legged it in the opposite direction.  Hopefully Kuryakin wouldn’t have a second gun on him.

An angry explosion of Russian expletives told Napoleon that Kuryakin was definitely not down for the count, and nor was he impressed by his abilities in close quarters combat.  Adrenaline surged through him like a hot wave.  He pounded up the creaking stairs to the ground floor and hurriedly began to retrace his steps back to the East Wing, skidding hurriedly around another corner, and then another, attempting to put himself at least one hallway ahead of his pursuer, until Napoleon eventually found himself back at the painting-lined corridor where he had first encountered Kuryakin.  His not-quite-stolen painting lay abandoned against the wall where he had left it.  Scooping it up as he ran past, he shuffled the straps onto his back, which was a remarkably difficult task while also running for his life, and he continued to race along the corridor in the direction of the servants’ quarters.  Gasping for breath, he pushed through a wooden door, took a few steps, then realised with ice-cold horror that he had no idea where he was.  Had he really come in this way?  Eyes wide, heart pounding, he spun around to the left, then to the right, and then behind him, eyes desperately searching for any feature he recognised, and anything that would help him find his way out of this god-forsaken mansion.  Footsteps sounded behind him.  Loud, angry, giant-sized footsteps.  Napoleon bit his lip painfully and groaned aloud, then dived into the right hand corridor.  He sprinted past another intricate landscape watercolour, then two ugly portraits- and then finally, there was something he recognised!  He would know that garish orange-and-brown monstrosity of a wall-hanging even if he encountered it in a back alley while drunk.  He must be on the right track now.  The kitchens should be just through this door, and from there he could find the service entrance and from there-

He threw open the heavy wooden door and stumbled out into the cold night air.  The breeze felt wonderful against his flushed, panicked skin, and he took a few breaths and a moment to orientate himself.  There was the stretch of wall he had clambered over on his way here.  Swallowing thickly as he panted for breath, he set off at a sprint towards it.  Putting Kuryakin’s taunts about hidden cameras out of his mind - he’d already been spotted, captured and insulted extensively over the course of the evening after all - he made a beeline for the wall and leapt up to grab the crumbled masonry at its top.  A loud bang, which almost certainly came from the door to the service entrance being slammed into the wall of the service entrance, sounded from behind him.  With his heart hammering against his ribs, Napoleon scrambled clumsily to the top of the wall and, even though he knew he shouldn’t, he cast a quick glance behind him.  Angry blond death sprinted towards him.  He choked down a cry of alarm and spun back in the opposite direction towards the forest in front of him, and the possibility of escaping with his life, the painting and, most importantly, his pride intact.

Out of the corner of his eye, a large dark shape on the wall beside him caught his attention.  Turning his head curiously, he saw a figure kneeling on the wall in a pose that mirrored his own, staring off into the forest exactly as he had been.  The figure turned to face Napoleon.  His eyes opened wide in startled surprise.  Napoleon stared back, his brows furrowed.  He stared at the man’s dark clothing, his furtive mannerisms, and at the large manila envelope of important documents sticking out under one arm.  

A strongly accented voice spoke uninvited in his head.

_You are distraction..._

_Incompetent..._

_Ridiculous..._

_Simply diversion planned by the CIA…_

_...to allow their real agents to carry out their mission._

Napoleon scowled darkly at the voice in his head.  He reached into his jacket pocket, lifted out his gun and unceremoniously shot the mysterious man in the leg.

Bellowing in pain, the man crumpled over onto his injured leg, then tumbled off the wall and down into the bushes below where he landed with a sickening crash.  Papers scattered into the dirt around him.  At the bottom of the wall, Kuryakin stared in astonishment at the broken CIA agent lying at his feet, then slowly raised his gaze up the wall to where Napoleon was sitting smugly above him.  

“Who’s the incompetent one now, Peril?  Have you improved your opinion of me yet?”

Kuryakin opened his mouth to respond.  When nothing but an indignant croak came out, he closed his mouth into a disapproving line and scowled up at Napoleon.  The menace did not quite extend to his eyes though, as much as he may have wanted it to, and before long a small smirk twitched at the corner of his mouth.

“I should shoot you where you stand, you incompetent cowboy,” he declared, but without any real venom.

Napoleon grinned broadly.

“You _should_ … but it may help if you have a gun.”  He dangled the stolen weapon from one finger with a flourish.

The upturned corner of Kuryakin’s mouth spread reluctantly into a full smile.  He cast his almost bashful gaze down to the ground, to the agent writhing there at his feet, and tried to compose the grin that was threatening to cover his whole face.  He eventually managed to coax the muscles of his face back into his usual stony expression, and he nodded to himself.

“I will graciously allow you to live this time, Cowboy.”  He jutted his chin in the direction of the bulge on Napoleon’s back.  “And… my memory must be failing me.  I seem to have forgotten where certain priceless works of art have disappeared to.”

Napoleon snorted an unexpected laugh.

“Why, he does have a heart after all!  I appreciate it, Peril, I really do.” He flashed a brilliant smile at the man below him.  

A clever thought suddenly occurred to him, and he tilted his head to one side.  

“Say, those documents must really be something if they’re more important to you than this.”  He jerked a thumb towards the bag on his back.

Kuryakin shrugged nonchalantly.

“I was assigned by KGB to protect documents.  Nothing more.”

Napoleon slowly nodded with raised eyebrows.

“Still,” he continued, “They must be worth a pretty penny to the right people.”  A cocky grin spread across his face.  “Maybe I should get into the spy game after all.”  

Kuryakin’s expression hardened and he glared up with narrowed eyes.

“Oh relax, Peril,” teased Napoleon.  “I was joking.  I wouldn’t give this life up for the world.”

He flashed one last grin at Kuryakin, and then hopped down from the wall into the darkness of the forest.

 

 


	2. A Gentleman's Agreement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who left comments and kudos on Chapter 1, I really appreciate it and it's very encouraging. The few stories I've written before have all been for obscure fandoms, so I feel very loved here :P

Napoleon’s dreams were pleasant.  Not the detailed sort of pleasant that he would be able to recall vividly the next morning, but instead enjoyable in more of a vague and abstract sort of way.  He dreamt of adventure and exploration, the thrill of a heist and escaping with his life.  His dreams were a wonderful and continuous blur: flashes of exhilaration and blue eyes, echoes of a strongly accented voice, fantasies of strong arms grabbing him, holding him-

Something tugged at Napoleon’s subconsciousness, pulling him into the realm between being fully asleep and truly awake.  He wasn’t completely sure how he knew, but he was now aware with perfect, icy clarity that someone was in the room with him.  He froze completely.  Scarcely breathing and with every muscle turned to stone, he lay there with eyes shut tight and his heart hammering, listening and listening, straining his ears against the darkness.

“Wake up, Mr Solo.”  Terror surged through Napoleon as the harsh voice filled the silent room.  “And do not try to reach for your gun, I have already removed it from under your pillow.”

The voice was disinterested and irritable, but also wonderfully familiar.  In fact, it had had a starring role in a number of Napoleon’s dreams over the past couple of nights, although with completely different, and much racier, dialog.  Napoleon felt the icy cold tension in his muscles melt away at the sound of it, and he let out the breath trapped in his lungs.  Opening his eyes to the darkness, and with heart pounding in excited curiosity, he flipped over from his side onto his back and pushed himself up into a seated position.  His eyes desperately searched the shadows for a sign of his visitor.  The small hotel room was almost completely dark, with only thin strips of orange light from a distant streetlamp sneaking into the room around a part in the curtains.  Out of the corner of his eye, a large dark shape could be seen at the foot of the bed.  Napoleon’s lips spread into a grin.

“Agent Kuryakin.  Or… Illya, wasn’t it?”

“Do not call me Illya,” replied the voice grumpily.

“Illya Kuryakin,” continued Napoleon as if he hadn’t heard.  He relished the sound of the name on his tongue.  “To what do I owe the pleasure of you in my bedroom at… hmm, let’s see…” He turned his head to peer at the hands of the travel clock beside his bed.  “At _2:37 in the morning_?”  His screwed up his face in bewilderment and rubbed a tired knuckle against his eye.  Suppressing a yawn, he felt the section of his brain responsible for witty banter slowly whirring into life.  “Nothing too scandalous I hope?” There was a wistful note to his voice.

An exasperated _tut_ floated from the other side of the dark room.

“If you could be serious for five minutes, I need your help with something important.”

Raising his eyebrows at the sharpness in Illya’s voice, Napoleon adjusted himself into a more comfortable seated position, arranging his pillow against the headboard into a backrest.  Genuine curiosity buzzed through him.  He had had unexpected night-time visitors a number of times in his life, of course.  Who hadn’t?  All of those times had either turned out to be indecent proposals or attempted murder or, as in one memorable case, both at the same time.  Strangely, Illya didn’t appear to have either of those activities in mind.

“Shoot,” he said. “What do you need?”  He focussed his gaze on the shape of Illya in the darkness and smiled invitingly.

“You have someth-” 

“Actually, before you start,” interrupted Napoleon, “Do you mind if I turn on the light?  It’s a bit dark in here, you know.”

An irritated sigh filled the room.

“ _Fine_ ,” spat Illya.  “Although bear in mind I already have your weapon.  Do not embarrass yourself.”

The lamp clicked on and the small room was filled with blinding light.  Blinking away the discomfort, Napoleon lowered his hand from his eyes and turned to face his visitor.  Illya Kuryakin was as handsome, stern and irritatingly tall as Napoleon remembered.  The height was the one thing he just couldn’t get used to, it stuck in his throat like a stubborn fish bone.  To be taller than him was one thing, but to do so while being classically handsome at the same time was just unfair.  He scowled a little at the injustice of it all.  Although, he comforted himself, it probably didn’t help his insecurities that he always seemed to be sitting or kneeling when he encountered the man.  The corners of Napoleon’s mouth twitched mechanically into a frustrated smile.

“What can I do for you this evening, Peril?”

Illya stood defiantly at the foot of his bed, dressed in the sort of dark clothes you wore when you had something illicit to do - well, the sort of clothes that _some people_ might wear when they had something illicit to do.  Napoleon wouldn’t be caught dead in that turtleneck.  His gun was raised, his gaze was fierce, and Napoleon felt a lot more vulnerable that he would like to as he sat in bed, knees wrapped in a woollen blanket and armed only with silk pyjamas and a smile.  He hoped at least his hair was pulling its weight.  He had been reliably informed that he had good bed-hair, and he could only hope it wouldn’t let him down now.  He resisted the urge to run a hand over his ruffled coif.

“Actually, before you tell me what it is,” continued Napoleon, perfectly aware of how irritating he was being, “How did you manage to track me down?”

Illya’s jaw clenched and his glare intensified.  One finger twitched against the gun in his grip.

“I followed smell of your cologne,” he stated matter-of-factly.   “It led me straight here.”

Napoleon tilted his head, eyebrows raised.

“What?  Really?”  Keeping eye contact, he surreptitiously lowered his head to his chest and sniffed once.

Illya threw his eyes to the ceiling.

“No, not _really_.”  He closed his eyes and took a long, slow breath.  “If you must know, I asked front desk of most expensive hotel in town closest to the scene of your crime if a Napoleon Solo was staying there.  They said yes.  Room 105.”  He shook his head dismissively.  “Oh, do not look at me like that.  You were the one stupid enough to tell me your real name when we first met.”

Napoleon smiled sheepishly.  He’d been more horrified by the notion that he might be over-doing it with the cologne.

“Ah.  Yes, I probably am over-fond of giving out my name to strangers.  It’s not the first time it’s bit me in the ass either.”  He sighed.  “Still, a night in your company may not be a bad thing after all.   What was it that you wanted my help with?”

Illya stared at Napoleon with a slightly exasperated look.

“Do you really not remember?”  He spoke slowly, as if to a child. “You took something that belongs to my employer.”   

Napoleon nodded, a pleasant smile on his lips.

“Oh, of course I remember that.  I _also_ remember recovering some terribly important documents for you that were stolen by an enemy spy.  Stolen on _your_ watch, no less.  I remember you turning a blind eye to my thieving ways, and I assumed that we’d come to a trade, a gentleman’s agreement, if you will: the painting for the documents.  That was the arrangement, was it not?”  He smiled imperiously from his seated position.

“We made no arrangement.  The painting was not mine to give.”

Napoleon’s mouth flew open.

“Oh, come on Peril, we had a deal!  I did you a good turn!  Can’t you let the loss of one little painting from a house full of paintings go unnoticed?”

A scowl darkened Illya’s face.  “It did not go unnoticed.  The General noticed within hours of its disappearance, and he would like the painting to be returned.”  With a frustrated scowl, he turned his head away and focussed his attention on the gap in the curtains, and the dimly lit street outside.  The gesture seemed strange somehow, though Napoleon couldn’t quite put his finger on why that might be.  Something about the angle he was holding his head… Napoleon’s eyes widened in realisation.  Illya was concealing the left side of his face. 

“The General punished you, didn’t he?”  It wasn’t a question.

Illya twisted his lip into a grimace but did not answer.

Disgust trickled through Napoleon’s chest.  Being hit across the face was one thing, Napoleon had plenty of experience of that, but to be struck like that by a geriatric General who, by law, could not be struck back, and for something that Illya had not even been responsible for, must have been absolutely infuriating.  If General Yezhov’s personnel file was anything to go by, he must have needed a stool to reach Illya’s face.  Either that, or the General had ordered Illya to kneel for him.  Anger twisted across Napoleon’s face at the image in his head.  The extent of his rage surprised him.  At the very least, the General should be brought up on charges of crimes against art and culture for daring to strike something so beautiful.  On closer inspection of the sudden swirl of feelings inside him, it took a moment for him to identify an unusual emotion whirling in the mix.  It may have been guilt.  That was a surprise, he was normally so skilled at squashing that one down.  A sardonic smile twitched at his mouth.  He supposed it couldn’t be helped, it would be a perfectly normal emotion to feel in these circumstances.  It was his fault, after all, that that beautiful face had been marred.  Since his usual approach to dealing with unwanted emotions did not seem to be working, he decided it would be best to take another approach to removing his guilt.  He would have to make amends.

“So I assume you want me to give the painting back.”  He shrugged lazily.  “The trouble is that I don’t have it anymore, I’ve already delivered it to my buyer.  I guess I’m just too efficient for my own good.”  He beamed smugly.

A puzzled frown crossed Illya’s face.

“I did not actually expect you to have stolen goods on your person.  I have fairly low expectations of you, but not as low as that.  You are going to steal the painting back from whatever despicable person you gave it to, and I will supervise you to make sure you do not decide to do anything stupid.  I was led to believe that you are the best thief in Europe: it should be no problem for you.”  The twist to Illya’s lips was nothing short of sinister.

Napoleon raised one eyebrow.  “And what if I refuse to cooperate?”  He may have had every intention of helping Illya, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to drag his feet a little.  He didn’t want to appear too eager, after all.

With furrowed brows, Illya lowered his gaze to the gun in his hand, as if checking it was still there, and raised it up to eye level.

“If you refuse you will be treated the same as any other enemy combatant who was caught trespassing on a Soviet military base.”

“Ah.  I see.”  He nodded in comprehension.  “But then you’ll never get the painting back, will you?”

“I suppose that is true.”  Illya shrugged nonchalantly, but his voice remained stern.  “General Yezhov may have been fond of the…” he let out a small groan and rolled his eyes, “… _‘painting with the horses’_ … but he values his honour even higher than that.  The idea of an intruder in his base, stealing his belongings and then escaping unnoticed is just too much for his honour to bear.  He wants results.  He does not care exactly what those results are, only that something is done to restore his damaged honour.  What would you rather have placed at his feet: you, bound in chains, or the painting?”  There was almost a pleading note to Illya’s voice, imploring Napoleon to see sense and play along.

Letting out a dramatic sigh, he decided it was time to cut the act.

“Oh, _fine_.  It’ll hurt business, if rumours get out that I turned on one of my clients, but I’m always a sucker for demands made at gunpoint.”  He gave a resigned smile.  “I’ll get the painting back for you.”

The tension seemed to soften from Illya’s posture and he let out a long breath.

“Good.”  He lowered his aim from Napoleon’s head and slipped the gun into a shoulder holster.  He then cast a brisk glance at his watch, turned around and took a few steps in the direction of the door.  Pausing for a moment, he turned his attention back to Napoleon, wrinkling his brow impatiently.  “Aren’t you going to get out of bed?”

Napoleon blinked, then opened his eyes wide.  “What, you wanted to get the painting _now_?  It’s nearly three in the morning!”

“Isn’t that the best time for a robbery?”

“W-well, yes…” spluttered Napoleon, “But I haven’t made any plans yet.  I can’t… we can’t just waltz in there half-cocked!”

Illya tilted his head curiously.

“Where is ‘ _there_ ’?  Do you know where the painting is being held?”

Catching his breath, and attempting to stop his train of thought from bouncing along the tracks quite so much, Napoleon paused for a moment and pressed his lips into a line.

“Well… I know where the client lives.  We met once to discuss terms, once on a social call, and it’s also where I delivered the painting.  I’ve been inside the house twice, so I know a rough layout… and now that I think about it, I also noticed a suspiciously bare patch of wall in the middle of an otherwise beautifully decorated corridor, so I could probably guess at where the painting is hanging.  As for a plan of entry… is there any chance I could have a few hours to think about it?  Maybe sleep on it?  I actually do most of my planning over lunch, usually with a glass of good wine to hand-”

“No.  We’re going now,” declared Illya.  “I’m not going to let the General’s mood get any worse than it already is while you piss away our time drinking and procrastinating.  Where is the house?  We are leaving in ten minutes.”

 

* * *

 

With a resigned scowl on his face, Napoleon tugged the passenger door of the tiny Volkswagen closed with a loud _clang_ and settled against the tatty fabric of the seat.  He rubbed his gloved hands together and exhaled roughly against them.  It had to be as cold in the car as it was outside.  Tucking his hands against his chest, he absentmindedly scraped some of the snow off his boots onto the floor of the footwell where it melted into a muddy puddle.  He stared blankly at the mess he had made.  Oh well.  It wasn’t his car anyway.  

“So where does your client live?” asked Illya beside him, his breath misting in the space between them.  “Is it far from here?”

Turning to face him, Napoleon was forced to smother down a laugh when he saw how cramped Illya was inside the tiny car.  He sat hunched over, knees brushing against the steering wheel, and his head was pressed up against the cold metal of the car’s roof.  The sight made Napoleon recall that the long driveway up to his client’s house was entirely gravel and, unless this car had impossibly good suspension, it was going to be a bumpy ride.  Illya was going to love it.

“Uhh, let’s see…”  Napoleon tugged his lips down from the smile they were desperately trying to form, and pressed them instead into a thoughtful line.  “She lives about half an hour from the outskirts of Berlin, so that would be… fifty, maybe sixty minutes or so from here, depending on how fast this rust-bucket can go.”

Illya scowled.  “If you do not like the rust-bucket, perhaps you would like to travel in trunk instead.  I will let you out when we arrive.”  He glared menacingly. 

Napoleon’s eyes widened in alarm, unsure if Illya was joking or not.  It was always hard to tell. 

“No further comments on car?” added Illya through gritted teeth, “Good.  Now then, what is the address?”

Napoleon’s brain held many further comments on car, but he decided it would be better not to share them.

“Well… there isn’t really an address, exactly, it’s just a huge house in the middle of nowhere.  One of those modern art labours-of-love that you see in architecture magazines: all glass and metal, filled with pretty things and excessive quantities of ego.  You’ll know it when you see it: it doesn’t exactly adhere to Soviet standards of living.”

Illya wrinkled his nose.  Whether it was in disapproval of the idea of a wealthy member of the elite living in luxury, surrounded by ill-gotten gains, or a simple distaste for modern art, Napoleon wasn’t sure.

“And how do we get there?”

“Hmm…” Napoleon pondered.  “Head west, back towards Berlin… and I’ll direct you to the turn-off from there.”  He grinned cockily.  He wasn’t going to risk a ride in the rust-bucket’s truck if he could help it.

Shaking his head in contempt, Illya turned away from Napoleon’s smug face and busied himself with starting the car.  On the third screeching attempt the engine finally rumbled into life, and Illya turned the car onto the empty road, heading for the countryside. 

 

* * *

 

“Ok, I’ve come up with an idea for how we’re going to get into the house,” said Napoleon, breaking the silence of a long drive.  The sight of Illya startling at the sound of his voice made him smile in amusement.  “It’s a little sketchy so far, but that’s what happens when I’m not given enough time or enough wine to plan properly.”

Glancing around for just a brief moment, Illya rolled his eyes as much as he could while still focussing on the road.  “Let’s hear it,” he muttered disdainfully.

“So… as I said before, the house is very grand and modern and filled with only the finest things.  That, of course, also includes the security system.  I wasn’t able to study it much on my previous visits, bearing in mind that I wasn’t planning to rob the place at the time, but a cursory glance suggested that there are motion sensors across the front door and all of the windows.  Anything that crosses the infrared beam sets off the alarm, simple as that.  It’s really quite a sophisticated system.”

“I have encountered such technology before.”

Napoleon smiled pleasantly.  “I’m sure you have.  I’m sure you were able to disable the sensors easily and walk right into whatever property you were trespassing on, but given that I don’t know the make or model of the sensors I think that particular option can be ruled out tonight.”

Illya nodded in agreement and pondered for a moment. “Is there another way in?  A basement or a side entrance perhaps?”

Napoleon shrugged.  “I honestly don’t know.  The only parts of the house I saw were the front door, the living room and the, ah… ” A devious smile lit his face. “Bedroom”. 

His cocky grin was met by a single sniff from Illya.  It might have been a scandalised, disapproving sniff, or a bored, uncaring sniff, or another judgement on the quantity of his cologne, or just the beginnings of a cold.  Napoleon wasn’t sure.  He was never sure on anything about Illya.  He pouted, feeling that his achievements were being underappreciated.

“I’m sorry, was there more to your story?” muttered Illya.  “If you do not know full layout of house then how do you suggest we break in?”

Turning his gaze back to Illya, the confident smile returned to Napoleon’s face.

“Well, that’s the plan I was talking about.  I suggest we don’t break in at all.  I think we should walk up to the front door and ask to be let in.”

Taking his eyes off the road for a moment, Illya turned to stare in disbelief at Napoleon.   “What?”  Focussing back on the road, he added “Is that a joke?”

Napoleon grinned.  He loved plans that could be mistaken for jokes.  They always turned out to be the most entertaining.

“No, it’s not a joke.  And to be more precise, _you_ are going to ask to be let in.  _I_ will be out of sight in the bushes like a good little thief.”

“What?  Why me?”  The expression on his face resembled that of a little boy forced to retrieve a ball from a grumpy neighbour’s garden.

“It has to be you because the client hates me,” he said cheerily.  “She would never let me in.  When I delivered the painting to her she just grabbed it from me, threw a bag of notes at my feet and slammed the door in my face.”  He chuckled at the memory.

“But I thought you were… in bedroom…” Illya trailed off, wrinkling his nose in suspicion.

“Yeah, we were.”  Napoleon sighed.  “Her problem with me is that she caught me _in bedroom_ with her brother two days later.  It was more than a little awkward.”

“Oh, I see,” said Illya, nodding conversationally.  “Wait, _what_?”  The car swerved on the empty road as Illya turned to face Napoleon.  Bewildered eyes flicked from Napoleon’s amused face, to the road and back to Napoleon, and he eventually managed to straighten out the car.  “You slept with _man_?  And you admit it so casually?”  His eyes were wide and his knuckles were white on the wheel.

Struggling to control a laugh, Napoleon shrugged his shoulders.  “Well… yeah.  I wouldn’t shout about my preferences from the rooftops but… yes, I’ve slept with men before and I sure as hell hope I will again.”  As he watched Illya, the amusement on his face soon hardened into a look of concern.  “It’s… not a problem, is it Peril?”  He gazed earnestly at the man beside him.  When he didn’t reply, Napoleon began to feel genuinely worried.  He swallowed a lump in his throat.  “Is it really any more despicable than if she’d caught me banging her sister?” he asked sincerely.

Illya’s eyes were locked on the road.  His lips were pursed into a thin line and his posture was rigid.   He let out a sigh and his shoulders seemed to soften.

“N-No.  There is no problem.  I am just… surprised.  I… I have not met anyone who admitted to that… preference before.”  He stared at the road ahead, his face unreadable.

“Well… good.  I’m glad there’s no problem,” Napoleon said softly.  He cast another concerned glance at Illya, whose finger was tapping erratically on the steering wheel.  “So, as I was saying… about our plan,” he continued hesitantly, “I will stay out of sight and you will knock on the door to the house.  The client – Gertrude – will answer, and she will disable the front door’s sensor to let you in.”

Illya frowned.  “Why would she let me in?  I am stranger to her.”

“I don’t know, just make up a story.”  Napoleon shrugged his shoulders.  “Your car broke down and you need to call a garage.  If she sees your car she’ll believe it for sure.”

“I warned you about insulting car.”  A small, wonderful smile twitched at the corner of Illya’s mouth. 

A knot of tension unfurled in Napoleon’s chest at the sight of it.  It had been one thing to have Illya roll his eyes at him on a regular basis, and for him to look down on his intelligence, and his mannerisms, and his abilities as thief.  Napoleon knew that, if he wanted to, he could prove him wrong about those in time and, if anything, he probably enjoyed those long contemptuous gazes more than he really should.  There was a challenge in them.  It was thrilling.  However, for Illya to have been disgusted by his sexual preferences, a fundamental part of his personality?  That was different.  That was unfixable.  Napoleon wasn’t sure exactly what their relationship was – if he was being honest with himself, ‘ _enemies_ ’ had to be the most accurate description - but he genuinely believed they shared a connection of some kind.  He felt relaxed in Illya’s presence when, logically, he should feel threatened by a skilled, towering KGB agent.  He enjoyed those brief, reluctant smiles, the flashes of dry humour, the fleeting glimpses of the man underneath the well-trained Soviet façade.  It also couldn’t be ignored that the man was absurdly attractive.  Whatever the nature of their connection was, he didn’t want it to end, and for a prolonged, horrifying moment he had feared that it had.  Or worse, that there had never been a connection to begin with, beyond his own delusions.  He let out his concerns with a deep sigh, and a genuine smile spread across his face.

“Tell the client whatever story you want,” he said with a grin, “As long as you get in the house and the sensor is switched off, it’s all good.  After you enter the house, I can follow at a safe distance behind you.  I assume she’ll take you through to the living room, I think that’s where she keeps her telephone, and I will sneak upstairs to the mezzanine level.”  He hesitated with a thoughtful look on his face.  “I should probably explain that the layout of the house is a little eccentric.  See, there’s a large open-plan living room and kitchen on the ground floor, and then beside that there’s a staircase which takes you to the mezzanine level.”  He gestured to the locations wildly with his hands, despite the fact that Illya probably wasn’t able to pay much attention to them.  “The mezzanine looks out over the whole of the ground floor, and it has doors leading to each of the bedrooms.  When I was there before, I noticed that the whole house is full of artwork with the exception of a patch of wall on the mezzanine level, so I’m fairly sure that’s where she’ll hang General Yezhov’s painting.”

Illya nodded in understanding.  “So if I am standing in living room, I would be able to see painting above me?”  He furrowed his brows thoughtfully.  “And also you, if you were stealing that painting?”

“Yes, and yes.  As far as I recall, there is a safety barrier along the edge of the mezzanine level which may offer me some cover, but for the life of me I can’t remember whether you can see through it or not.”  He smiled.  “I really hope not.  After I retrieve the painting, all I need to do is get out of there without being seen, and then you can make your excuses and leave.  Then we drive off into the sunrise, crack open the wine and celebrate a job well done.”

Illya nodded slowly.  “Yes, I think this plan could work.”  He wrinkled his nose.  “There are many ways that it could go wrong, of course, but that is the same for any plan.”  He cast a quick glance down from the road to his watch.  “We have been driving for forty minutes now, do you recognise any names of towns we have passed?  We are going right way?”

Napoleon peered out the window into the darkness.  Tree trunks from a vast forest flashed past beside him.  He would never admit it to Illya, but the rust-bucket could move at some speed.

“I remember the village we passed through five minutes ago.  They have very good ale there, you should try it sometime.  We’re on the right road, Peril, just keep going and I’ll tell you where to turn.”  He settled his weight into the threadbare seat with a contented smile on his face and watched the German countryside go by.


	3. A Can of Worms - Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3 was supposed to be short and sweet, but somehow it ended up as a 6000 word monstrosity. I thought it would be better to split it into bite-sized chunks, so here is Chapter 3 Part 1, short and sweet as originally intended.

Napoleon swore loudly into the crisp night air.  It had been the third time he had lost his footing on the barely-lit path in as many minutes.  Steadying himself with arms outstretched, he huffed a few irritated breaths and then continued to walk precariously along the uneven road, focussing his gaze determinedly on the paltry beam of light from his flashlight.

“Who needs a private driveway _this_ long?” he snapped grumpily.

Illya snorted derisively from beside him.  “Who needs to live in mansion on their own in the middle of nowhere?” he muttered.  “Who needs to have so much artwork in their home that they have to resort to theft to expand their collection?  Who needs to deprive hard-working families of comfortable living space so that they can enjoy luxury of house full of spare rooms?”  He sighed in disgust.  “You know, I thought this country was set on right path after we took over, but there are still so many who would be so selfish and think so little of their fellow countrymen that they think it is acceptable to live this way.”  He sniffed disapprovingly.

Napoleon raised an eyebrow.  “Hey, steady on comrade, I wasn’t trying to have a political discussion with you.  Believe me, that’s a can of worms that does _not_ need opening.  I was only pointing out that this woman has a private driveway that’s basically nothing but a mile of gravel, and my shoes are really not made for this kind of terrain.  I can feel the stones through the soles,” he moaned.

“Your poor choices in footwear are your own fault,” retorted Illya, “And what other choice did we have to get to this house besides walking?  We could not drive one mile along a private road, park at the mark’s front door and then claim to have mysteriously broken down.  It would be suspicious.  She would never let me in.”

“No, and we don’t want that.  You already look suspicious enough as it is,” muttered Napoleon drily.

Napoleon’s unsuitable footwear was by no means his only grievance that night.  He may have almost gotten used to the poor visibility and the uneven ground by now, but he still felt like he was one large stone away from a sprained ankle.  It was also bitterly cold outside, even for a German winter, and while his woollen scarf and gloves were undoubtedly stylish they could only do so much to keep away the chill.  He pulled his scarf up higher against his chin and scowled into its folds.  Eventually, to Napoleon’s huge relief, a soft golden glow could be seen through the trees of the forest ahead, and the path rounded to reveal a long line of bulbous yellow lamps that had been set into the ground at ankle height.  There was something reminiscent of a fairy tale about the sight, as if the lamps would lead the way to a gingerbread house or a witch’s hut, but that image was soon dispelled when the house came into view.  Napoleon had seen it before, of course, and had even been inside on a few visits to his former client, but somehow he never got used to the sight of it.  Their mark’s house was disgustingly modern and looked as if it had been made from a set of vast building blocks of different materials assembled into a neat pile by a giant toddler.  Sleek chrome cubes the size of small cottages were stacked on top of glass cubes, a cube made from bricks was stacked beside two cubes of wooden panels, and the mismatched walls of the finished pile were punctured at regular intervals with large square windows.  It was all hard edges and 90 degree angles, vast and sprawling in the middle of the dark forest, and somehow it managed to be both ugly and beautiful at the same time.

“That is the house?  It does not look like a house.  It looks like a mess,” said Illya disapprovingly.

Napoleon nodded in reluctant agreement, Illya having echoed his own first thoughts about the house almost perfectly.  For someone who stole art for a living he had surprisingly little respect for what was called contemporary art.  They trudged up the remainder of the path to the steps which led to the grand glass front door.  Napoleon turned to meet Illya’s gaze and they shared a silent nod.  They knew what they had to do: Illya was on distraction detail, and the thieving duties were left to Napoleon's capable hands.  It was just a simple in-and-out job and, if all went well, the stolen painting would be back with its rightful owner before breakfast.  Napoleon left Illya’s side and moved to nestle himself amongst the large, neatly trimmed bushes that flanked the steep steps, while Illya moved to climb those steps, and peered uncertainly through the glass porch to search for signs of life inside the darkened house.  He paused hesitantly at the front door with his hand raised, and his eyes flicked towards Napoleon in the bushes.

“Go ahead and knock, I’m ready.  She won’t be able to see me here,” whispered Napoleon. 

Illya’s hand remained raised and he stared blankly at the door.  “What if she does not let me in?” he asked softly.

Napoleon’s eyes widened in mild surprise.  “Why would she not let you in?  As long as you tell her a reasonably believable story and pretend for a moment that you’re _not_ a surly KGB agent, you’ll be fine.  The story about the broken down car should do the job just fine.”

Illya pressed his lips into a line.  His hand remained poised inches from the door.

“But… what if she calls garage from inside house, but does not let me inside?  You said that she lives alone.  It would be a reasonable course of action.”

“Well, what if aliens descend from the sky and abduct both of us into their flying saucers?” countered Napoleon flippantly.  “You know you can’t plan for every possible outcome, so you just gotta go ahead and do it anyway, and then wing it if it all goes pear-shaped.”  His brow furrowed thoughtfully.  “Wait, you’re not _nervous,_ are you Peril?  Isn’t this the sort of thing that a young, handsome KGB agent would have to do all the time?  Making up cover identities, telling lies, playing the part… maybe even the occasional honey-trap?”  His mouth spread in a gleeful grin.  “I thought you’d be good at this.”

Illya turned his hard gaze from the door to frown uncomfortably at Napoleon.

“I wouldn’t say it is _regular_ thing, but yes, if I am required to play a part then I can do so.  I am professional.  It is just…”  He hesitated, and turned his eyes back to the door.  “I cannot seem to get into the right mindset tonight.  There is something that feels… off-duty about tonight.”

Napoleon raised an eyebrow.  What did he mean by that?  ‘Off-duty’ would imply an evening that was fun and relaxed and enjoyable, and a number of other words that he would not associate with Illya.  He shrugged in defeated exasperation.

“Look, all you have to do is to make sure that the security system is switched off so that I can let myself into the house, and ensure that her attention stays on _you_ for the entire time that I’m inside and never on _me_.  You’ve probably done this sort of thing a million times before.  Be charming and distracting, it’s really not that hard if you try.” 

“I can be charming,” said Illya sullenly, through gritted teeth.

“Why don’t you show me then?”

With a determined nod, Illya knocked briskly on the front door.  He then noticed the button for the doorbell to the side of the porch, and pressed that as well.  Taking a breath, he ran a large hand over his hair to smooth it, observed his reflection in the glass door, and dropped his hands to his sides where he tapped a finger against his thigh.  He rang the doorbell a second time.  As he stared at the closed door his eyes suddenly widened, as if a thought had just occurred to him, and he turned to walk back down the steep concrete steps, stopped at the bottom and then turned back around to resume his watch of the door.

Napoleon’s brows wrinkled.  “What on earth are you doing?” he asked flatly.

Looking a little sheepish, Illya glanced in his direction.  “I have been told that I can appear… intimidating.”

Napoleon’s lips parted and he nodded in realisation.  He pictured their mark, who he knew to be a woman in her thirties named Gertrude who stood a little over five feet tall, opening the door to find a six-foot-something Russian standing on her threshold in the middle of a dark night.  His lips twitched into an uncomfortable smile.  “Ah.  Yes, standing at the bottom of the steps may be a good idea.”

It occurred to Napoleon then that throughout their planning process of the best way to reclaim the stolen painting, neither of them had suggested the possibility just straight-up robbing Gertrude.  The idea had briefly crossed his mind, of course, and it had no doubt crossed Illya’s as well, but somehow the image of the two of them barging through the front door into a diminutive woman’s house to relieve her of her valuables just didn’t sit right with him at all.  He was an art thief, after all, not a common criminal, and he had a certain pride in his work that included a firm policy to avoid unnecessary damage and distress.  Illya apparently shared the same values, despite his obvious frustration at the painting’s theft and his impatience to see it returned to his employer.  Napoleon smiled fondly as he watched Illya hunch over a little further, lowering his height by another precious inch, and then stare up at the closed door above him.  He then ducked his chin slightly so that he was almost peering through his eyelashes.  The gesture did some pleasant things to Napoleon’s insides.  Who knew that Illya could be cute when he wanted to?  He would give him that one, but he still wasn’t convinced on ‘charming’ yet.

Before long, a bright light spilled out from within the house which illuminated Illya’s face and caused him to blink erratically.  With a rattle of keys, the inner door to the house opened and soft footsteps padded out into the porch.  Out of sight and around the corner, Napoleon was unable to see Gertrude and he wished dearly that he could have seen her reaction to Illya, and judge how likely he was to have the door slammed shut on him.

“Can I… help you?” asked Gertrude cautiously, her softly-accented voice muffled by the thick glass of the outer door to the porch.

Illya gazed up at her with wide, innocent eyes.  “Ah, good evening.  I’m so sorry to bother you at this ungodly hour, Fraulein, but I’m afraid my car has broken down out on the main road.  I must have spent at least twenty minutes trying to identify the problem for myself but… it turns out I’m useless when it comes to cars.”  He smiled apologetically.  “Would you be able to call a garage for me?”

Napoleon grinned in amusement.  So much for Illya’s performance anxiety.  It even sounded like he was making a conscious effort to tone down his Russian accent: he was noticeably sanding down his harsh vowels and taming his rolling Rs, moulding his voice into something more generically eastern European.  Napoleon had to admire his effort, but he couldn’t say that he enjoyed the final result.  He didn’t sound like Illya anymore.

“Oh…” Gertrude paused, either in thought or in a yawn.  “Alright, I can call you a mechanic.  Come inside out of the cold.”  With a second rattle of keys and a low beeping sound that Napoleon almost didn’t catch, the security system was disabled and the outer door swung open.   “I know of a wonderful mechanic in Berlin.  She helped me with some car trouble last month, I can give her a call for you.”

Illya smiled pleasantly, a sight which Napoleon had never seen before, and he stepped forward to climb the steps to the front door.  As he moved out of sight around the corner, Napoleon heard the door close behind Illya.

“Would you like a cup of cocoa?” he heard Gertrude ask from inside the house, in the low, croaky voice of someone very recently asleep.  “I find it helps me sleep.  Or… I can put on some coffee, if you’re still travelling?”

The guilt he heard in Illya’s voice seemed to be genuine.  “I’m so sorry to have woken you, Fraulein.  Cocoa would be wonderful, if it’s not too much trouble.  I’ve got another few hours to go before I’m home, but I will need to try to sleep before my shift starts at 9 o’clock and I’ll never be able to sleep if I’ve had coffee.  I had a family emergency, you see, so I…”  Illya’s fabricated story eventually became inaudible as they moved further away from the front door, much to Napoleon’s disappointment. 

Still squatting in the bushes, Napoleon listened with practiced ears for any signs of them returning to the front door.  When he decided that the coast was clear, he pushed himself to his feet, eased off the slight burn in the muscles of his calves and stepped out the bushes towards the door, swatting away a few rogue twigs from his suit jacket as he did so.  Through the glass of the outer and inner doors he could see Gertrude standing beside a vast unlit fireplace, a telephone held to her ear and one eye on a saucepan on the nearby stove.  Illya was awkwardly admiring the room from beside her.  With a surge of familiar adrenaline, Napoleon silently turned the handle of the outer door and eased it open, his eyes locked on the back of Gertrude’s ornately designed nightgown.  He was ready to dive back into the bushes at the first sign of her turning around.  When she did not, he let out a tense breath and stepped cautiously inside the porch, pulled the front door closed behind him with a soft _click_ , and then opened the inner door with a bit more urgency than before and crept through into the house.  His heart pounded as he double-checked that both doors were closed behind him and appeared to be untouched, and then he stepped through into the living room.  Almost as soon as his feet touched the polished wooden floor, he darted over to his right to the staircase leading to the upper floor. 

“Where do you keep your utensils?” he heard Illya ask from the kitchen behind him.  “I had better stir this milk in case it boils over.”

Smiling at the glimpse of Illya’s domestic side, Napoleon paused half-way up the stairs to take a slow breath, grateful to be out of sight for a moment.  The interior of this eccentrically-designed house was so spacious and open-plan that any place where he would be completely out of sight would be something of a luxury. 

“…in the drawer next to the stove… thank you,” came Gertrude’s distracted reply.  “Sorry, Gaby, you were saying?”

Napoleon began to carefully climb the remaining wooden slatted steps, keeping his feet as close to the wall as he could to minimise creaks, until the stairs opened out into a large and airy mezzanine level.  If his assumptions were correct then this is where the painting should be hanging.  Taking a single step forward onto the landing, he slowly panned his gaze across the cavernous room with an appreciative smile on his lips.  The view from the landing was magnificent.  Ahead of him was a large square walkway made from chrome and white painted steel, which seemed to levitate over the open-plan kitchen and living room below and led to the master bedroom and guest rooms.  Sculptures and paintings were scattered intermittently on display tables and on the walls, and as he cast his gaze up he saw that the ceiling above him was one solid pane of glass, through which he could see that the clouds had parted to reveal the stars sparkling in the night sky.  He nodded appreciatively.  Perhaps the house wasn’t so hideous after all.

Forcing his attention back to earth, he saw Illya in the kitchen below him, diligently stirring a steaming pan of milk on the stove.  If he stood on tip-toes he could just see the top of Gertrude’s artistically dishevelled blonde hair as she spoke to the mechanic on the phone.  Reassured that he had made it this far without her noticing his presence, his thoughts soon returned to the business at hand and he lowered his posture down into a relaxed crouch, and swept a searching glance over the walls of the room.  _There_ was the painting, exactly where he had predicted it would be.  He took a moment to congratulate himself on that fact.  It hung less than ten yards from where he stood, but on the opposite side of the square walkway.  He noticed that the inner edge of the square was protected by a chrome handrail at waist-height, which would no doubt offer protection if he decided to trip over his own feet and fall down into the kitchen below him.  However, to his dismay at his own poor memory, it did not offer any sort of visible cover for him.  It was just a thin chrome bar.  The simple fact of the matter was, if he was going about his business on the walkway and Gertrude decided to look up at her extensive art collection then she would see him there easily.  There was nothing he could do about that though, all he could do was hope that Illya was distracting enough to Gertrude to allow him to move around the upper floor unnoticed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned! Part 2 is pretty much done and should be up in the next day or two.


	4. A Can of Worms - Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now for Part 2!

With the poise and grace of a hunting panther, Napoleon crept out onto the floating walkway, keeping himself as low and as far from the sheer edge as he physically could.  He cast an occasional glance to the wall and ceiling to reassure himself that it really was secured there by unobtrusive steel cables, and was not _literally_ floating.  For all he knew, the entire structure could have been some kind of artistic statement that he was about to misinterpret spectacularly.  When a few silent steps across the walkway did not cause the whole thing to come crashing down, he let out a breath that he really had no need to have been holding and continued on his path towards the painting.  He smiled to himself in amusement as he approached it.  So much fuss over one little painting.  It didn’t even appear to be all that special, particularly when compared to some of its flashier neighbours in Gertrude’s collection.  The canvas showed a simple landscape view: a vivid field of autumn colours with a thin trickle of a river and a few grey horses quietly grazing.  The whole thing was about a foot squared and framed with brushed brass.  It was really nothing startling.  However, the signature of a certain fifteenth century Old Master scribbled onto the bottom right hand corner of the canvas changed matters significantly.  That was what turned a simple decoration into something worth robbing the Russian military for.  Or, something worth paying a lot of money to have a certain well-dressed individual rob the Russian military on your behalf.  Or, in this _particular_ case, something worth teaming up with a grumpy KGB agent in order to rob the woman who originally commissioned the painting’s theft to retrieve it on behalf of the Russian military… and Napoleon stopped as his train of thought tumbled off of the tracks and fell into a ditch.  With a scowl and the beginnings of a headache, he lifted the painting off the wall and shoved it under one arm.

Below him, he heard the jangling sound of a phone being set back onto its receiver.

“The mechanic is on her way,” announced Gertrude.  “It’s normally about a half hour drive here from Berlin, but the roads will be deserted at this hour so… oh, you finished making the cocoa?  Thank you,” she said with a note of surprise.

Napoleon placed the painting on the floor and lay down on his stomach beside it, appreciating for a moment how clean Gertrude kept her floors, and peered over the edge of the walkway.  He saw Illya warming his hands against a large earthenware mug, and Gertrude blowing away some of the steam from her own cocoa.  Napoleon waited carefully, watching for an opportunity to signal to Illya that he’d successfully managed to retrieve the painting.  If he was being honest with himself, he probably didn’t need to signal anything; he probably could have just gone ahead and made his escape there and then, but somehow he _wanted_ Illya to know that he’d been successful.

“My name is Gertrude, by the way.”  He watched as she took a slow sip of cocoa, her eyes observing Illya over the rim of the mug.

“Ivan Kuric,” replied Illya.  The little liar.  “So...” He cast his eyes around the room distractedly.  “You really have a wonderful home.  It has such a distinctive design, I couldn’t help but admire it from outside.”  Was there no end to his lies?

“Oh, thank you.  I designed it myself.”

Illya blinked in obvious surprise.  “R-Really?”

Gertrude grinned proudly.  “Yes, really.  I’m an architect and my brother Gerhardt owns a construction company, so between the two of us we were able to put our inheritance from father to good use.  We built this place a few years ago, and Gerhardt has a house of his own just outside of Berlin.  He requested more of a faux-Grecian style for the design of his house and I was happy to oblige, but I’ve always preferred more contemporary styles of architecture.”  She waved a majestic hand at the walls around her and smiled.  “I’m glad you like it.”

Illya met Gertrude’s gaze for a moment with a brief twitch to his lips, before he focussed his attention back onto his mug of cocoa.  His awkwardness around her was starting to look more like garden-variety shyness, rather than any nervousness about keeping his cover as Napoleon had previously assumed.  Was he always shy around strangers?  He hadn’t exactly been shy around him when they had first met.  With a sinking feeling in his gut, he realised that he didn’t actually know Illya well enough to say how he was around anyone else.  Could it be that he was _attracted_ to Gertrude?  The idea made Napoleon scowl, and the bitter feeling in his gut sunk even lower.  Suddenly feeling the need to divert Illya’s attention, he raised his hand over the edge of the walkway and waved animatedly.  Illya’s head snapped up at the gesture.  Napoleon flashed him a thumbs-up and a cheery grin, and lifted the painting up from the floor to point enthusiastically at it.  A wave of relief seemed to cross Illya’s face, and the corners of his mouth spread into an appreciative smile.

“Oh, are you admiring the painting up there?” Gertrude asked Illya with genuine interest.  “I only acquired that one a few days ago - after spending the better part of six months tracking it down, I might add.  I just _had_ to have it for my collection, it’s such an exquisite example of both the style and the period.  I must say, you really have an eye for art.”  Her gaze was warm and intense.

Illya’s eyes opened wide in alarm.  “Ah, n-no, I was just looking-”

“You’ll get a much better look if you’re standing in front of it, you know.”

His panicked gaze flashed up to Napoleon before returning to Gertrude.  “B-But… I don’t want to be a bother-”

“Don’t be silly, it’s no bother at all," she insisted, waving a placating hand.  "We’ve got at least twenty minutes to kill before Gaby gets here.  We’ve got time to show you my collection.”

Gertrude set her mug down defiantly on the kitchen counter and marched off towards the stairway to the mezzanine level, her footsteps soft in her fur-lined slippers.  She beckoned eagerly to Illya.

“There’s no need to be shy, I always appreciate the chance to show off my collection to guests.  Come on.”  Napoleon did not like the little wink she gave him.

Illya’s posture was stiff as he reluctantly set down his mug and began to trudge after Gertrude.  As she turned to climb the stairs, he cast a mournful glance up at Napoleon.  Their eyes locked for a moment in a way that Napoleon thought said so much.  Concern, mixed with an apology, mixed with a warning… or perhaps it had just been a simple glance.  Whatever it had meant, Napoleon nodded back emphatically and scrambled to his feet with his heart pounding.  He probably only had seconds before he’d be seen.  Oh wait, the painting!  He still had it on the floor beside him!  Hurriedly, he rushed over to the wall to shove the painting back onto its hook, and with fumbling hands he straightened the frame, then straightened it again, and then threw up his hands in exasperation and left it to its crooked ways.  With the evidence of his theft returned to its rightful place, he began to frantically search for somewhere to hide.  He could try one of the doors along the outer edge of the walkway, but he had no idea where most of them led to and he couldn’t be sure that Gertrude’s collection wouldn’t extend to those rooms too.  Where else could he go though?  He could hear Illya’s boots on the staircase now, much louder than Gertrude’s slippers - he had to get off the walkway now!  There was only one exit available to him: he dropped down into a crouch at the edge of the walkway and pushed himself off the edge.  He landed like a cat in the living room below and quickly got to his feet, ignoring the complaints in his legs from the long drop.  He darted into the kitchen and ducked into a crouch beside the stove, where he hoped he was out of sight.  His heart was pounding and his breath much louder than he would like it to be.

“Here it is,” he heard Gertrude announce above him.  “It’s truly wonderful, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Illya flatly.  There was a long pause.  “I like the… colours.”

Napoleon smothered a grin.

“Oh, that’s what I like about it too,” Gertrude replied passionately, “I love the contrast between the brightness of the reds and golds of the autumn leaves with the soft silver of the horses and the river, I think it really says something about the passing of the seasons.”

“…Yes,” said Illya.  He paused again.  “It means… there is beauty in things that are not permanent?” he said uncertainly.

Napoleon heard Gertrude sigh dramatically.  “Those were my thoughts exactly,” she said softly.  “Come, there’s something else I want to show you over in this room.”

Two sets of footsteps sounded directly overhead and a door at the opposite end of the walkway opened and clicked closed behind them.  Napoleon’s breath stopped in his throat.  Unless his ears were deceiving him, that was the door to Gertrude’s bedroom.  His heart pounded with something other than adrenaline and he felt a little sick.  He knew there was no artwork in Gertrude’s bedroom.  Well, there was no _good_ artwork in Gertrude’s bedroom.  He supposed that if the definition of art was to be stretched considerably then the garish lump of scrap metal that was pretending to be a sculpture could _perhaps_ be counted... although, by that logic, that would also make Illya’s car a work of art and Napoleon wasn’t sure he wanted to live in a world where that was the case. 

_There’s something else I want to show you._

Attempting to shove his jealousy to one side, Napoleon focussed instead on the perfect opportunity to re-steal the painting that had just presented itself to him.  He didn’t know how long this opportunity would last: depending on the nature of Gertrude’s intentions towards Illya he could have seconds, minutes or hours.  He didn’t have time to waste on trivial things such as stairs and so, in a feat of athleticism he wished Illya had been there to see, he clambered up onto the kitchen counter and then leapt up to grab the bottom of the steel walkway.  He hoisted himself up and over its cold metal edge and rolled under the handrail, and then sprinted across the walkway to lift the painting off the wall for a second time.  He thought it prudent to take the stairs on his way back down, instead of leaping off the walkway with a priceless artwork tucked under one arm, and so he crept down the stairs as quickly and quietly as he could, and then passed through the porch and out into the cold night air, leaving both doors closed behind him and no trace of his presence besides the new gap in Gertrude’s collection.  Now all he had to do was walk a barely-lit mile in the opposite direction and trust that Illya could take care of himself.

 

* * *

 

Napoleon frowned and pulled his scarf closer against his neck.  Illya was sure taking his sweet time.  He’d been standing and shivering beside this rust-bucket of a car, hugging an ugly painting to his chest for nearly twenty minutes.  Another car had driven past about five minutes ago, which he assumed could only be the mechanic, but there was still no sign of her returning with his partner in crime.  He was freezing and he was bored and he wasn’t sure which was worse.  It didn’t help his mood that he was continually having to suppress the images his brain kept offering as an explanation for Illya’s whereabouts.  He reminded his brain that there were plenty of things for two people to do in a bedroom that didn’t involve sex.  It was true, he mused, that he hadn’t done any of those things while _he_ had been in Gertrude’s bedroom four days earlier - or in Gerhardt’s bedroom two days after that, for that matter - but at no point in his life had Napoleon ever claimed to not be a hypocrite.  He knew that Illya wasn’t like him.  Illya was better than that.  They were probably just admiring the exquisite carpentry on Gertrude’s bedposts.  A long groan escaped Napoleon’s lips and he closed his eyes.  Another minute passed and he decided to distract himself by picking the lock on the passenger door and clambering inside to shelter from the cold, but it soon became obvious that it was colder inside the car and he stepped back outside again.  He left the painting inside though, resting comfortably on the back seat and covered by a few Russian newspapers.  While Napoleon considered picking the lock to the car’s truck out of nothing but pure nosiness, he saw a glow of headlights appear in the distance and he breathed a deep sigh of relief.  It was about time.  He scampered away from the light like a feral fox and hid himself amongst the trees. 

The mechanic’s car slowed beside the rust-bucket with a crunch of gravel and pulled to a stop.  From his hiding place in the trees, he watched as the mechanic stepped out of the car first: Gaby, as Gertrude had named her, was dressed in grubby overalls and her dark hair spilled out of a brightly coloured scarf tied around her head.  There was a briskness to her movements as she slammed the car door and made her way around to the rust-bucket that spoke of impatience, or possibly just irritation from being woken in the middle of the night.

“ _This_ is your car?” she asked Illya, who Napoleon could see was in the process of unfolding himself from Gaby’s tiny car.  After clambering out he stretched himself to his full height to ease off his cramped frame, which inadvertently created one of the greatest differences in height that Napoleon had even seen with Gaby standing beside him. “I’m not surprised it gave out on you,” she continued, “It’s amazing you can even run it in the first place.  I thought they’d discontinued this model after all of those fires?”

Illya shrugged defensively, with a small pout to his lips as if he was hurt by Gaby’s slights to his car’s honour.  “I have not heard of that,” he muttered, but with a note of worry.  “I have had no trouble with this model.”

“Until today,” added Gaby.

“Y-Yes.  Until today.”

Napoleon swallowed thickly.  They had _tried_ to deliberately sabotage the car to ensure that it wouldn’t start, but since it turned out that neither of them knew the first thing about the mechanics of a car beyond the basics, they had had to resort to pulling out a random wire from under the hood and hoping that it would cause the car to malfunction in a believable way.

“Alright then,” said Gaby briskly.  “Give me your keys and I’ll see what I can do.”  She grabbed the keys from Illya’s outstretched hand, climbed into the driver’s seat and turned the ignition.  The car spluttered into life.  She turned to glare at Illya with narrowed eyes.

“O-Oh.  It’s working now,” he mumbled.

Pressing her lips into a frustrated line, Gaby stepped out of the car and stalked over to where Illya was standing uncomfortably.  The top of her headscarf barely reached his shoulder.  Fury burned in her eyes and she jabbed one finger hard into his chest.

“If you _ever_ waste my time again,” she hissed, “And decide to wake me up in the middle of the night on some wild goose chase, I will strip your car to scrap metal in front of you and sell the pieces back to you.”  She wrinkled her nose at Illya’s car, as if it were filled with rotten fish.  “Although, to be honest, I think I would be doing you a favour with that.”  She jabbed her finger into him a second time, then spun on her heel and stalked back to her car.  She slammed the door behind her and tore off into the night without a second glance.  Illya released a long breath and rubbed absentmindedly at the spot on his chest where she had prodded him.

“ _So_ ,” declared Napoleon, as he popped up out of the bushes and caused Illya to jump, “All’s well that ends well, right?  We managed to get your boss’s painting back, the mechanic didn’t charge you for wasting her time, and it doesn’t look like Gertrude’s called the cops yet."  He counted off their successes on his fingers.  "I’d count that as an across-the-board win.”

Illya’s eyes drifted from Napoleon’s eager face to the patch of road where Gaby had disappeared into the night, with a slightly guilty expression on his face.  He let out a breath and turned back to Napoleon.  “Yes.  It ended well,” he said flatly.

“Did it _end well_ for you and Gertrude?” Napoleon asked, forcing a teasing note into his voice.

Illya furrowed his brow.  “She gave me her phone number, if that is what you mean."  He shrugged.  "It is moot though: she is clever enough to know that my visit and the disappearance of her favourite painting is not a coincidence.”

"Hmm, ok." Napoleon nodded distractedly, his eyes blinking more than they probably should have been.  “What about your… visit to her bedroom?”  He raised his eyebrows in what he hoped was a sly, knowing expression.  It felt more like a constipated expression.

“Oh, I see.”  Illya nodded in understanding.  “She only wanted to show me a sculpture that she thought was perfect representation of a certain emotion.”  The corner of his mouth twitched up.  “She asked which emotion I thought it was.  I said ‘anxiety’.  The correct answer was ‘joy’.”  He shook his head solemnly.  “She was not impressed.”

Relief spilled out of Napoleon and the sides of his mouth floated up into a relaxed grin.  A laugh bubbled out of him from deep inside his chest.  “If it makes you feel any better, I thought that spiky lump of metal was supposed to represent ‘greed’.” 

Illya let out a short laugh.  It was a beautiful sound, like the call of a rare animal.  “Where is the painting, by the way?” he asked curiously.  His eyes searched Napoleon as if he had stuffed it under his jacket.

Napoleon jerked his chin in the direction of the car.  “In the backseat, all tucked up under _Moscow Today_.”  He let out the satisfied breath that came with a job well done.  “So, what do you think?  Are we done here?”

Illya nodded.  “Yes, I think the General will be glad to see the painting returned.  And _I_ will be glad to go home and get some sleep.”

 


	5. A Restless Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of the kudos and comments so far! I've been very busy with work, hence the late update, but I've been loving the love this fic's been getting and it makes writing it so much more enjoyable.

Someone was in the room with him.  Napoleon felt their weight press heavily on the end of the bed, and then the heat of their body as it slid in under the covers beside his own.  Their scent was familiar, their presence comforting.  It was Illya.  Large hands ran over his bare chest and warm breath ghosted across his skin, before lips crashed hard against his own, warm and wet in the darkness.  He felt the grip of strong calloused hands on his neck, his arms, his chest, his thighs, his-

With a gasping breath, Napoleon’s eyes flew open.  He lay motionless in bed with his heart beating erratically, his hands grasping at the empty bedsheets beside him, panting for breath in a bewildered half-conscious state.  Blinking in the darkness, his brain slowly whirred into life and began to steadily make sense of the situation.

“Dammit, not _again_ ,” he moaned into the silent room. 

He flopped his head back against the pillow and stared mournfully at a crack in the ceiling above him.  Whichever part of his brain was responsible for generating dreams really had a lot to answer for these last few days.  The frustratingly sexy dreams about Illya had been amusing for the first few times, but now it was just cruel.

With a scowl on his face, he flopped over onto his side, pulled his knees and the bedclothes into a tight foetal position and closed his eyes.  He willed for sleep to come, but his breath was still too fast and his heart too frantic to do anything other than lie there and stare at the back of his eyelids.  He rolled over onto his other side and tried to calm his breathing.  In… and out.  In… and out… and don’t think about Illya.  In… and out… and don’t think about him.  Think about something else.  Think about paintings, and sculptures, and all of the other things of beauty in the world.  There were plenty of beautiful things out there that didn’t glare at him with piercing eyes, in a look of icy contempt that he secretly loved so much.  Things that didn’t give him sass on a regular basis, and slowly drive him mad. 

A frustrated growl rumbled in his throat.  No, _don’t_ think about Illya, he demanded of himself.  He tried to calm his thoughts, but it was like trying to calm the raging waters of a lake with just his hands: every clumsy attempt only seemed to make it worse.  He let out a deep, lung-emptying sigh.  Think about something else.  

Those little Inca-style statues that he had seen the other day were terribly, _terribly_ interesting, weren’t they?  Gold and jewel-encrusted, and the perfect size to keep on a mantelpiece: they were definitely his kind of prize.  The vault they were being kept in should be simple enough to break into.  He was sure that he had encountered the same model in a laughably easy heist a few months earlier.  To have so many artefacts crammed into a single suitcase inside a single, poorly designed vault was just too good an opportunity for him to pass up on.  They must be worth a fortune.  In fact, they were so lovely that he might even keep one back for himself.  He liked lovely things, after all.  Illya was lovely, wasn’t he?  What would he be doing at this time of night?  Would he be on patrol?  He always seemed to encounter Illya at night, so perhaps he had the night watch.  Had he _chosen_ the night watch, or would he have preferred a day shift?  He wondered what Illya-

_Dammit_.  He was really terrible at not thinking about things. 

He opened his eyes and stared forlornly at the opposite wall, realising that sleep was a lost cause.  His eyes caught on the travel clock beside his bed.  Apparently, it was 1:24 in the morning.  He growled a frustrated sigh, tossed his blankets to one side and clambered out of bed.  Stalking over to the window, he parted the curtains and stood there for a moment, staring blankly at the deserted street outside.  His mind was still buzzing and unresponsive, thinking of Illya and only Illya and nothing but Illya.  Pressing his lips into a tight line, he dipped his head and pressed his forehead against the cool glass.  He closed his eyes. 

This was ridiculous!  He had to do something about this!  He hadn’t slept properly in a week, and every restless night had been Illya related in some way.  As much as he had enjoyed their previous encounter, part of him wished that Illya had never snuck into his bedroom in the middle of the night.  It had seemed to establish some kind of precedent in his imagination, and now he couldn’t help fantasising that he would return one of these nights.  Perhaps he would shake Napoleon awake and drag him away on some adventure, like he had before.  Or perhaps he would feel those huge hands of his gripping his shoulders and pushing him hard into the mattress, and that smart-ass tongue wet against his neck, and-

Oh, not _again_! Napoleon thumped his head hard against the cold glass and groaned loudly, as if the noise would somehow block his thoughts.  That was it, he’d had enough.  He was going to pay a visit to a certain Soviet mansion.  Perhaps the sight of Illya’s grumpy face would put these ridiculous fantasies to rest, and he could finally get some sleep.

 

* * *

 

About half an hour after hurriedly pulling on some clothes and storming out of his hotel room, Napoleon found himself perched on top of the crumbled stone wall that surrounded a familiar Soviet military base.  The light of the half-moon hanging in the cloudless sky reflected off the thick snow blanketing the manor’s grounds, illuminating the surroundings in a silvery glow.  From his vantage point, his eyes scanned the deserted grounds of the converted mansion and, liking what he saw, he gave a brief, professional nod of approval and pushed himself away from the wall to land on the snow covered ground with a muffled thump. 

As he got to his feet, he brushed a dollop of snow from the knees of his trousers before it had a chance to melt through, and then ducked down into a ready crouch.  He could see the service entrance to the manor just a few strides ahead of him, but he took the time to double and triple check the path ahead for any watchful soldiers.  It was certainly a lot brighter outside this time around, and he didn’t want to take any unnecessary risks if he could help it.   

A gust of wind sent a shiver through Napoleon, and he tucked his gloved hands tightly against his sides.  His breath misted in the air in front of him.  He felt very exposed out here.  He reassured himself that he had been here once before – which was more than he could say for most of the places he had broken into – and he was already familiar with the layout of the grounds, some of the interior, as well as the not-insignificant fact that both the grounds and the interior were littered with surveillance cameras.

He put this inside knowledge to good use and, although it took him a good few minutes of searching, he eventually spotted one camera embedded in the masonry of the perimeter wall, casting its watchful gaze in the direction of the gardens.  If Napoleon had dropped from the wall one meter to his right, it would have spotted him for sure.  A grimace crossed his face at the thought, and he cautiously craned his neck to peer at the camera, reassuring himself that it couldn’t see him where he was standing.  The camera was impossibly tiny, like something out of science fiction, and its sleek metal casing was exquisitely camouflaged against the grey stone.  He swallowed a knot of apprehension and admitted to himself that he would never have noticed it there if Illya hadn’t warned him about it first.

Illya.  Napoleon straightened from his crouch and cast his gaze back across the well-lit grounds.  He had no idea where Illya would be, and he wasn’t even entirely sure what he would do even if he managed to find him.  His half-formed, sleep-addled plan was not exactly founded on solid logic, and had been merely cobbled together from a mixture of gut instinct, adrenaline and single shot of stone-cold coffee.  All he knew was that seeking Illya out had to be a better option than lying in bed, staring in sleepless frustration at his own ceiling.  He assumed that Illya would be on watch at this time of night and, if his previous visit was anything to go by, he would almost certainly be inside the manor.  He ducked back into a crouch, cast a glance in either direction, and scurried across the grounds to the side entrance. 

Now that he knew what to look for, finding a second camera protruding from the wall above the service entrance was not as hard as it would otherwise have been.  It gazed down at the threshold to the entrance like a tiny gargoyle, ever-watchful and unavoidable.  Napoleon briefly considered the possibility prising it out of the wall, but instead decided to block the camera’s view in what he hoped was a believable manner.  He scooped two large handfuls of snow from the ground, patted them into a ball and, grinning to himself, hurled it up at the lens.  It splattered satisfyingly against the wall in a wet explosion, leaving a thick coating on the sandstone and a shower of white lumps on the ground below.  He suppressed a chuckle.  That was probably more fun than it should have been.  From there, picking the lock to the side entrance was a simple task and, after carefully scraping away the worst of the snow and mud from his boots, he quietly stepped into the house. 

Making his way silently through the dark, deserted kitchens, Napoleon headed along the mansion’s winding corridors in the rough direction of the East Wing.  It was the only part of the interior that he had any familiarity with and, since he had encountered Illya in the East Wing before, that was where he pictured him in his head, perpetually patrolling the same painting-filled corridor like a ghost in a haunted house. 

A shiver ran through him at the thought of seeing Illya again.  What would he say to him?  How could he explain breaking into the base for a second time?  Especially breaking in for the sole purpose of… He wasn’t sure what his purpose was.  What was he even doing here?  A low groan rumbled in his throat and regret settled in his gut as if he had swallowed a stone.  This was really a terrible idea.  He smoothed an uneasy hand over his hair and gulped a few breaths.  He had come this far, after all, he had to keep going.  All he had to do was find Illya, catch a glimpse of his stupid face… maybe shoot the breeze for a bit… and then he could be on his merry way, back to bed for a good night’s sleep.

Something caught his attention - a glint of glass out of the corner of his eye.  He froze in his tracks, poised awkwardly in mid-step.  Unless his spotter’s skills had let him down terribly, there was another camera embedded in the frame of the painting to his left.  With a breath frozen in his throat, he slowly took a step back and turned his full attention to the glint in the frame.  It _was_ a camera, he had been right.  He nodded smugly to himself.  Flattening his body low against the left wall, he dropped himself down, under the camera’s gaze, and shuffled along the thick pile carpet.  At the other side of the invisible barrier, he clambered to his feet, dusted off his hands and continued on his way along the corridor with a slight spring to his step.   

As he rounded the next corner, a familiar voice spoke from behind Napoleon.  Shock and excitement surged through him like electricity at the sound of it.

“You are really doing _so_ much better this time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm actually writing my PhD thesis at the moment, and my week has basically turned into full-time, hunched-over-a-laptop typing. I was hoping to do both thesis writing and fic writing at the same time, but it's harder and more tiring than I thought it would be. I'll keep it up as best as I can, but the delays between chapters might get a little longer :(


	6. An Indecent Proposition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slow update! I don't have a lot of free time these days, but I was able to do a little bit of writing that wasn't thesis-related...

“You are really doing _so_ much better this time,” muttered a familiar voice from the darkness.

Napoleon stopped in his tracks in the hallway, his heart pounding in excitement.  He felt the muscles tense in his back, his neck, his thighs, before the tension melted away and he sank into the comforting sound of the voice behind him.  This was what he had come here for, to hear that voice, to see his face.  To be in this man’s presence.

“I think you should be congratulated,” the voice continued in a whisper, “On the fact that I only spotted you on _one_ surveillance camera on your way here… which is a lot better than last time, when I saw you on just about every camera on the network.  You’re improving.” 

The note of surprise in the whispered voice annoyed Napoleon immensely, and yet the words still sent a surge of pleasure through him.  He let out an exaggerated sigh of disgust and rolled his eyes up to the ceiling.

“Agent Kuryakin,” he grumbled, in his most convincingly bored voice, before he turned around to face Illya.  He flashed him a defeated smile. 

The man over which Napoleon had obsessed for an entire week stood defiantly before him, his beautiful face twisted into a confused scowl.

“What are you doing here, Cowboy?” asked Illya softly. 

He tilted his head to peer over Napoleon’s shoulder, and then cast a quick glance in the other direction. 

“I… hope you are not planning to steal anything else from this base,” he whispered, crossing his arms across his chest, “Because if you are, you should know that I will have to stop you.  I will be _required_ to stop you,” he added emphatically. 

He gazed at Napoleon with an almost imperceptible shake to his head, silently begging him not to try anything stupid. 

Napoleon smiled gently.  “Relax, Peril, I’m off the clock tonight.  I’m here on more of a social call.”

Illya raised an eyebrow.  “A social call?”

“Yes, a social call,” repeated Napoleon, in a patient tone that just skirted on the edge of being patronising.  “You know, when friends drop by on their friends to see how they’re doing?”

Illya blinked, as if he wasn’t sure which aspect of that sentence he should object to first.  “B-But… it’s two in the morning… and you are in enemy territory… and…” He cleared his throat abruptly, “W-We are friends?”

Napoleon’s face lit up with a cheerful grin.

“Of course we are!  How are you, Peril?”

Illya cast another wary glance behind him, and then at the dark, empty corridor beyond Napoleon’s grinning face.  “I am… well?”

“Glad to hear it.” Napoleon smiled charmingly.  “I’m not doing too badly myself.” 

He nodded at his own words absentmindedly.  His one and only mission objective for the evening had been achieved the moment he saw Illya’s face, and now he wasn’t really sure what else to do with himself. 

Illya appeared even more confused than he had been a moment earlier.  “Was there… anything else?”

Napoleon’s mouth went dry and he tightened his hands into nervous fists, the nails digging into his palms.  He swallowed uncomfortably.

“Well, if I’m being honest, the reason I came looking for you at two in the morning is because…”

_Because I keep having erotic dreams about you and it’s driving me mad._

_Because I want to know if the feel of your hands on my body is as good as I’ve been imagining._

_Because I’d do anything to spend more time in your company._

“Because I… actually have a job planned that I don’t think I’ll be able to manage by myself,” he stammered.  His sketchily planned heist of a suitcase full of gold statues popped into his mind in a flash of inspiration, saving him at the last second.  “I was wondering if you’d like to team up for it?” 

His mouth spread into a hopeful grin and he let out a subtle sigh of relief.  As far as spur-of-the-moment, improvised excuses went, that was probably one of his better ones.

“A job?  So… you mean a theft?” Illya corrected, with a raised eyebrow and a harshness to his voice.

Napoleon shrugged his shoulders.  “Well, _technically_ yes.  But wait-” he interjected as Illya rolled his eyes.  “It’s not a _bad_ sort of theft.  It’s actually one of my favourite types - stealing from the bad guys.” He grinned enticingly. 

“And you are not one of the bad guys?” asked Illya drolly.

“ _No!”_ replied Napoleon, horrified by the question.  “I’m not a bad guy!  I mean, I’m not overly burdened by a conscience either, and I guess I do make a living in stolen goods… and I have profited from war looting on a few occasions…”

He balked at the unimpressed glare that Illya was giving him. 

“But I’m not a bad person!  There’s a lot of people in the world who are much further along the scale of evil than I am, and I definitely like the idea of stealing from such people for my own gain.  And _your_ own gain, partner.  That’s what’s called a win-win situation.” 

Illya stared flatly at Napoleon’s eager face.  “How much further along the… ‘ _scale of evil’_ … are these people that you’re planning to rob?  Are they mafia?  Nazi sympathisers?”

Napoleon shrugged.  “Well, I don’t know much about their politics, but from what I’ve heard we’re talking about a full-on, taking-over-the-world kind of organisation.  They seem to have almost unlimited resources and influence, and they’re pretty determined about their mission statement of world domination.”  He nodded sincerely.  “I’d say they were 100% evil.”  There wasn’t a shred of irony in his voice.

Illya wrinkled his nose dismissively.  “Come now, do you expect me to believe that?  You could have just told me the truth and said that you wanted to rob a wealthy businessman, without making up stories involving world domination.”  One corner of his mouth twisted into a sardonic smile.  “I am KGB, I think I would have heard about the existence of a group that was plotting to take over the world before a common criminal did.”

Napoleon raised an offended eyebrow, but decided to let the ‘common’ jibe slide.

“Ah, but that’s the thing: we criminal types _always_ know far more about the work of other criminals than law enforcement ever does.  I just stumbled onto their existence as part of my day-to-day work.” 

He gave a smug smile, which Illya did not appear to appreciate. 

“Basically, I got a tip-off the other day from an old acquaintance about the location of a vault, just east of Berlin.  Now, this vault was supposed to have contained a priceless statue, which I was very interested in for obvious reasons, but after a bit of further reconnaissance, and cashing in of favours, and a spot of wining and dining with the right contacts and so on, I managed to dig up the fact that it was actually an entire _case_ of statues that was held in the vault.  That’s when I heard all about this criminal organisation: they’re using these statues as a form of currency for payments to their suppliers and informants and what-not.  The warehouse where this vault is hidden is something of a bank to these people.”  He smiled imperiously.  “Do you see why I brought this job to you now?” 

Napoleon’s heart pounded with exhilaration.  It was always such a good feeling when one of his improvised plans ended up sounding so much better than the schemes he planned meticulously for days.

“What is this organisation’s name?” asked Illya suspiciously.

Napoleon pondered for a moment.  “Hmm, it’s something strange.  Sounds like an STI… oh, what is it again?”  He grimaced and clicked his fingers in frustration.  “Ah!  That’s right, it’s _Thrush_!”

“Thrush?  That is an unusual name.”  Illya furrowed his brow.  “Wait.  Is a fungal infection really the first thing that you associate the word ‘Thrush’ with?  Not the bird?  The common, garden-variety bird?”

Napoleon shrugged.  “What can I say?  I guess we’ve lived very different lives, you and I.”

An exasperated growl rumbled in Illya’s throat.  “This sounds like wild goose chase.  Did you really expect me to jump at this ‘opportunity’?”

Napoleon’s eyes widened, and the first trickles of doubt began to seep into his gut.

“Well actually, I kind of did.  You’re KGB – the best the KGB has, or so I’ve been led to believe.  I thought you’d appreciate the chance to do a bit of investigating for a change, instead of having your time and your talents wasted as a glorified night-watchman.”  A hard edge had entered Napoleon’s voice.

A muscle twitched in Illya’s face and one finger flashed towards Napoleon’s chest like a drawn sword, his eyes burning bright into Napoleon’s.  They held each other’s gaze for a moment, before his accusing finger dropped back to his side and resumed its erratic tap against his thigh.  His parted lips snapped into a tight line.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” Napoleon continued to prod.  He had no idea where this anger, this righteous indignation on Illya’s behalf, had come from.  “General what’s-his-name is keeping you here as a bodyguard and a foot soldier, isn’t he?  When was the last time you did any real KGB work?”

“I _am_ doing real KGB work!” snarled Illya.  “Any order from KGB is real KGB work!  I cannot just refuse an order, and… and waltz off with some criminal on a whim, on the off-chance that the group he’s planning to rob may _actually_ want to take over the world, and it is not some elaborate ploy to enlist my help for a crime.  I have responsibilities, and superiors and subordinates, and orders to follow - _rules_ to follow!  Do you understand any of those concepts?”  His voice was icy and full of venom, and more sinister in that otherwise silent hallway than if he had shouted in Napoleon’s face.

Napoleon held Illya’s fiery gaze.  He calmly took a breath and exhaled through his nose, and felt one corner of his mouth twist up into a relaxed, cocky smile.

“Don’t give me that, I’m only pointing out what you already know – and you _must_ know you’re being wasted here.  Does it really need to be the KGB’s finest that sits up all night watching surveillance videos?   Can’t one of your subordinates do it?  Aren’t you allowed even the smallest amount of initiative to follow up on a lead, especially one that could lead to the destruction of an international terrorist organisation?”

Illya did not answer, but his scowl had become so severe it was on the verge of being audible. 

“Alright then, what if I was to put it this way?” continued Napoleon, undeterred. “I am here as an anonymous, civilian informant, and I am _anonymously informing_ a respected KGB agent that there’s a group of bad guys up to no good in Berlin.  Bad guys with a name that causes itchy genitals.  So tell me, what does a good KGB agent do with a piece of intelligence like that?”

Illya turned up his nose and sniffed dismissively.

“A good agent would make judgement call on quality of the intelligence, and decide that that particular _civilian informant_ was an unreliable, morally dubious thief and a Capitalist, and then reject any information he has to offer.”

An indignant squawk escaped Napoleon’s lips.

“Hey now, ‘unreliable’ is a little harsh!  I never lie about work, ever!” 

He placed one sincere hand over his heart and gazed intently into Illya’s eyes. 

“I swear on everything I hold dear that the information I’ve given you is sound, and that I genuinely need your help to bring these guys down.  They’re ambitious and resourceful and very, very dangerous, and if we can steal those statues from them we’d be compromising their payments to their suppliers and partners.  We’d be striking a real blow at their operations!  I need you for this, Illya, I can’t do it without you.” 

If truth be told, that last part _was_ a lie.  He knew he was perfectly capable of robbing Thrush without Illya’s help.  He just didn’t want to.

Illya let out a deep sigh.  “I can’t just take a night off, Cowboy.”

Napoleon grinned.  “Ah, come on.  It’ll be fun.”

With that compelling argument, Illya’s eyes rose up to the ceiling, and then further up into the back of his eyelids.  A slow, defeated breath escaped his lips and he dropped his gaze to meet Napoleon’s.

“Fine.  I will help you rob this Thrush organisation.  But I _swear_ to you,” he muttered through clenched teeth, “If this turns out to be an elaborate lie, and you really are planning to rob a civilian, or a business, or some other innocent party, then I will take you down without a moment’s hesitation.” 

The look in Illya’s eyes was the fiercest that Napoleon had ever seen, and went far beyond the normal ‘scarily attractive’ category of glares and into the uncharted waters of ‘straight-up terrifying’.  Napoleon swallowed a lump in his throat.

“W-Well, it’s a good thing I’m not lying then, isn’t it?” he choked, forcing his lips into a smile.  He had to remind himself that, for a nice change, he really wasn’t lying.  He knew the information to be sound.  It was just that Illya’s expression had the frustrating ability to make him feel guilt for things he had not even done.

“So tell me,” enquired Illya, his voice still thick with scepticism, “When did you plan to do this ‘job’?”

The grimace on Napoleon’s face softened into a genuine smile.

“Are you free tomorrow?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I'm sure you're probably aware, Thrush is the name of the general-purpose evil organisation from the original Man from Uncle TV show, which serves as the villain in about 99% of the episodes. The immature side of me got a giggle from lines like "We need to stop the spread of Thrush!", and other situations that sound like they could be overcome by a good anti-fungal cream.  
> On the thesis side of things, the writing is actually going better than I thought and I should have a finished thesis by the end of next month. I'm not sure when the next chapter update will be though, I'll have to see how busy/sick of writing I am for the next month :)


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